


love and other wounds

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, F/M, Kidnapping, Long Night, Marriage, Middle Ages, Moral Ambiguity, Peculiar Ending, Repurposing, Traditional Narratorial Style, War, Warging, Wargs, Weltanschauung Differences, Wildling!Lyanna, Witchcraft, kingship, reign - Freeform, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disapperance of the Crown Prince shakes the realm to its core, his sudden return even more so. The subsequent surfacing of strange creatures leaves little doubt that interesting times will follow, even as suspicion regarding the wildling woman the returned ruler has brought along takes roots in many a mind.</p><p>AU! Every empire meets its fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love and other wounds

Lyanna knocks an arrow into place, still eyeing her prey with steely determination. The hare looks around carefully, beady little eyes searching for the danger it can undoubtedly taste on the tip of its tongue. Lyanna smiles triumphantly. It cannot possibly see her where she is. The arrow is released. It flies with a sharp sound and finds its target, striking it through the neck. The hare manages one last jump forth, small paws struggling against the red snow. Lyanna runs out of her hiding spot, hand held forward. She takes the creature and cradles it to her chest.

"Look," she calls out, "I caught it." Her words ring out through the open space. Lyanna holds up her prey, shaking the dead beast with vigour.

From behind a mountain of snow, Styr steps out. His grey eyes take in the image of his sister and her pride. Lyanna smiles and raises her chin in expectation of praise. "Good." The one words is enough for her. Styr strides towards her and takes hold of one of her braids, tugging on it affectionately. "Next time, you'll take down an elk."

She heaves a bout of laughter. "A bear," she promises. The tug on her braid becomes sharper. Lyanna pulls herself away and crushes the hare to her chest. "I want to show mother."

This hare is special. It's a damnable beast that has escaped their clutches many a time. Lyanna is not entirely sure how it managed that, but she knows very well the frustration of the hunt and turning up empty-handed. For that reason, she takes much pride in her kill. It takes skill and patience. Styr gives her a nod and they being the track back to camp, where mother will be waiting. Possibly even father will have returned by now.

Lyanna falls into step with her older brother, catching him by the arm out of habit. There is no need for worry in her father's camp, but keeping close to Styr is never a bad idea. She looks at the thin trail of smoke climbing up into the heavens. A small smile take over her lips. Styr walks towards the tent and pushes the flap open, motioning her in. Lyanna throws her head back and enters, her braids flying behind her.

Mother sits up from her place next to the fire, the mending falling to the ground. She holds her hands out. Lyanna pushes the hare into her arms and sits down. Styr walks in behind her. He sits down at her side. They are much like children in such moments, sitting side by side before a roaring fire. All that is missing is a story.

"Finally," Lyarra breathes out, noble features relaxing. "Well done, Lyanna. I knew I could count on you." Her small, dainty hands stroke Lyanna's hair. "Your father will return soon."

Aye, as he should. Lyanna doesn't like it when he's gone. "Styr felled an elk," she tells mother, "but left it for Byor." She scowls at her brother who gives her a fierce glare.

"It was his to with as he wished," Lyarra laughs. "Wilful child, leave your brother be."

She is soft, her mother is. A soft-hearted creature who does not like the suffering of others and will do what is in her power to stop it. It's the Southron blood, Lyanna thinks. It must be. The truth is that even after twenty years far from her home, Lyarra is more a Stark than she is a Thenn. Lyanna accepts the bowl of food that is passed to her and continues to look at her mother.

In a simply dress, rough and dark, she should look like any other free woman, but there is always something out of place about her, a discrete feeling which is more a poke than a stab, easily ignored in favour of more important aspects. But given that none hold her attention now, Lyanna is left free to contemplate her mother.

Born south of the Wall, Lyarra is the daughter of a noble house, or at least that is what her mother calls the Starks. Lyanna knows little of them for mother does not speak of her relatives. There is pride in her eyes when she mentions their name though. Lyanna reckons they are much the same as any other kneelers. Still, she is interested.

Usually it is their father who speaks of stealing mother away from underneath her own father's nose. Cyrin had been a young man when he'd gathered some of his best men and made for beyond the Wall. Some men wanted wives, others went for riches. Her father had wanted to prove to his own father his worth. Thus. he had made for a place of danger with his sword as aid.

Lyanna's mother had been on the road with her father, making her way to Winterfell, where she was to wed a cousin. Lyanna recalls that mother named him Rickard. There, the red wandered being within the Moonmaid, her father saw Lyarra Stark and wanted her enough to sneak into the camp she had made with her own and steal her away. They'd tried to stop him. Even going as far as to shoot arrows at him. Lyanna had seen some of the scars.

She is glad that he took mother away from there. Lyarra is fond of speaking about Southron customs. Lyanna is horrified whenever she hears of them. They are a strange people those. Fathers choose husbands for their daughters and women are rarely allowed to take up arms. It sounds horrible. Lyanna is glad to be of the free folk. She'll do her own choosing.

Speaking of which, Lyanna gives a long look towards her brother. "I want my knife back," she tells him, holding her hand out.

Styr takes the weapon from his belt and throws it at her. "Much good it'll do you," he laughs.

That pesky red wandered has found his way into the Moonmaid once more. That means there is a great chance some other fool would try stealing her away. Well, Lyanna is prepared. "Last time it helped."

It's a common enough thing. Lyanna just wishes someone will succeed at some point. So far, all those who have tried had been slashed to ribbons at her hands and Styr's. Father is usually reluctant to step it. Between herself and Styr, Lyanna imagines that they have enough manpower as it is.

The last man who had tried to make off with her, Lyanna recalls, is still limping quite badly. He is the first if her father's men to have tried it and Lyanna respects that, though she is more amused by his failure than she can say.

"Enough bantering, under the covers with you," Lyarra calls to them, shooing them away to their usual spot.

Lyanna lets out a long whistle and beds down upon the furs, pulling some over her. The tent flap rises and a lithe, great beast comes in. "To me, Claw," Lyanna calls her pet. The direwolf throws a hungry look to bowl of stew, but Lyarra raises her wooden spoon in warning. Lyanna whistles again and the she-wolf turns to curl at her feet.

Later, once the stars light the sky and the moon shines brightly, Lyanna hears later than sees her father enter. She imagines his lowering himself to where mother is. Sure enough, a small moan reaches her ears soon enough. Lyanna shifts, turns her back, though there is little she can make out in the darkness. Styr stirs at her side and at her feet Claw moves. Slowly, she drifts into slumber upon the end of a sharp intake of breath.

Next she wakes it is to the soft rumbling of Claw. It is a warning if she has ever heard one. Lyanna searches beneath her pillow for the knife. Her fingers wrap tightly around the handle and excitement coils tightly in her stomach. She kicks her foot into Styr's leg. Her brother murmurs a protest.

"Wake fool," she hisses. "Someone approaches." Whoever they are, Claw doesn't like the scent. For her part, Lyanna is eager for a good bloodletting. Anticipation hums in her veins. A dark shadow makes its way into the tent. Lyanna touched her foot to Claw, silently commanding the she-wolf to keep still. Claw listens. Styr wraps his hand around her wrist to signal that he is ready when she is. Lyanna tugs her hand away.

And all hell breaks loose.

Claw leaps from her place with a loud growl. Styr follows on the heels of that attack with a bellow of rage. But the limber stranger somehow escaped wolf and brother. Lyanna rises from her spot just as the stranger reaches her. One hand grips at her forearm. Lyanna slashes at the limb with her knife. She fights against him like a madwoman, determined to not let him win.

Laughter comes from where her father should be. Lyanna takes heart in that. She lunges in another assault, jumping upon the man. This time, she sinks her teeth into the unprotected skin of his neck. A yell of pain comes from the victim. Lyanna's leg kicks against Claw who had bitten into what she assumes is his leg. The man is hauled away by her brother and thrown outside the tent.

Hurriedly, Lyanna follows, _eager to see the face of the man who failed_. He is tall and lean, but only a boy by the looks of it. Disappointment courses through her."How? Think you that you may steal me away?" she snaps at the child. Claw growls from behind her. "Away, boy."

By the time they return inside, mother has made another fire and she is inspecting Claw's bloodstained fur. "Another failure?" she asks of her daughter, though the answer is obvious enough. Her father, for his part, seems well pleased. Lyanna is apparently the only one who finds fault with the outcome.

She goes to sleep, hiding tears. Claw crawls in between her and Styr, pushing her limbs into her brother. Lyanna takes the she-wolf in her arms, hiding her face in the sift fur. Is she truly asking for something that is not possible? Indignant and beyond frustrated, Lyanna vows to herself that _if no man will steal her then she will steal one of her own._

When she falls asleep a second time, she dreams. It is not wolf dreams, for Claw is right beside her. Nay, she dreams of flowers, full blue blooms of indescribable beauty. She dreams of tall walls and stone cages. It is enough to convince her that like her father she must seek her luck on the other side of the Wall. Which she will do, as soon as the opportunity arises.

With that in mind, Lyanna starts spending more and more time with her mother. Lyarra has her suspicions, but as her daughter will say nothing, she lets matters be for the moment. "And what exactly would you have of me, daughter?" she asks, braiding her thick hair.

"I just wished to know if you remembered how father took you beyond the Wall." It's an innocent enough question. But with her daughter, it might as well be a question about how to launch an attack on the Night's Watch.

"I may," Lyarra allows. "It's been two decades though, child, and my memory is not quite as good as when I was a girl." She coils the braid and pins it up with the ornate stick. "You would be better served asking Torr. That boy has been on the other side of the Wall recently."

Her daughter falls silent at that. "There," Lyarra says, "all done. Off you go."

And off she does go. Torr is easily found. Her mother had called him boy, and he is that. Torr is two years her junior, but fierce for all that and skilled with a weapon in hand. He gives her a questioning glance when he sees her. Lyanna, not one to waste time, makes her request. "Take me on the other side of the Wall."

"The Magnar." It is not so much a question, she perceives, as it is as warning. Lyanna waves it away, assuring him that her father can find no fault with her desire. So Torr agrees in the end.

Styr is the only one to whom she tells. Her brother is sitting by the fire, sharpening an arrow. Lyanna sits down next to her, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm going." The simple admission turns his attention upon her.

"Where?" he questions, giving her the sharpened arrow. Lyanna takes it and hands him a blunt tipped one.

"I'm talking Claw with me," she offers by way of reply. Styr gives her a hard stare. "I cannot wait any longer."

"You can," he contradicts. "You just don't want to." That is true. Lyanna gives an unapologetic nod. "Why not choose someone from this side of the Wall?"

"None holds my interest." It's always been this simply with her. Styr sighs, but does not attempt to change her mind again. "Try not to get yourself killed."

"Your faith warms my heart." They laugh together.

* * *

Rhaegar is desperate. He gives an exasperated look to his younger brother. Daeron has filled a spoon with peas and is aiming it at the head of Lord Stark's youngest daughter. Their father is much too absorbed in Lady Stark's bosom to mind that tough and mother is simply looking forward, shutting the rest of the world out.

Shaena chortles, covering her mouth with her hands. "Not so low. You'll never make it," she instructs Daeron.

"Shaena," Rhaegar hisses.

His sister turns her light lilac eyes to him and he is treated to an innocent smile. "She's insufferable."

She is insufferable. Rhaegar looks at Wylla Stark. The girl, one years Shaena's junior but twice as much trouble, glares at them, holding an apple to her mouth. It would be bad form to allow her to be injured, but then again Daeron is throwing peas, not stones. The only injury will be to her pride.

"Come on, Rhaegar," Shaena pleads, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Nobody is paying attention anyway."

He relents. But only because Shaena would still do it even if he didn't. When his sister makes up her mind nothing will change it. And they call women weak-willed. Had Shaena been born a man, Rhaegar would have been more than happy to leave the throne to her. And the other burdens that come with it.

"Very well." And Daeron releases the projectile. Wylla retaliates.

Rhaegar ducks, just in time. He, thankfully, avoids having an apple crash into his skull. Shaena, however, is not so lucky. Her anger translates into more trouble. Rhaegar places a hand on her arm, wish her to understand that _nay, she will_ not _start a food fight._ Her eyes flash, telling him that _aye, she will and there is nothing he can do about it._

(Shaena should have been born a man. She might have done the army proud. As a woman, she'll have considerably less luck convincing father to allow her to don chainmail and armour.)

Given that her word is her bond, Rhaegar is not surprised when a tart sails past his head and smacks into Lady Wylla. That, however, finally attracts the eyes of the ever watchful parents. Shaena flushes and pretends a deep preoccupation with the pork chops set before her. Daeron shoves the spoonful of peas into his mouth before he can think better of it and grimaces when he realises what it is that he has eaten. His throat works to swallow. Rhaegar wonder if the boy will asphyxiate himself. For his part, he hides behind his wine cup.

"That was a near thing," Shaena comments softly, after all attention returns to conversation, for most people, and Lady Stark's bosom, for his father. Shaena catches him staring as well and pokes him in the ribs. Rhaegar glares at her, wishing he could rub at the smart, but he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction. "Men," his sister murmurs.

"It's not like I can help it that they're there," Rhaegar grumbles. Gods, they are positively huge.

* * *

His sister doubles over under the influence of her fit. Laughter pours forth from her until her face is red and her eyes are filled with tears. "You should have seen the look on her face," she speaks between giggles. "Oh, Rhaegar. She looked at me as if I'd told her the dead were coming back to life."

He would have probably reacted no better. The misfortunes of others, however, are usually a great deal of fun. So he smiles at Shaena and decides against asking her where she had heard of such things. He might find out, and then there would be trouble for them all.

"You cannot help it, can you?" he asks after she had calmed down.

"Nay. But I promise to be good if you play me a song." This promise he has heard several times before. Rhaegar raises one eyebrow at her. "Oh, come brother. I was not so naughty as that. I shan't tease Wylla Stark at all if you play me a song."

"I know you, Shaena Targaryen. If you don't tease Wylla, then you will inevitably turn your attention to Brandon Stark." The oldest of Lord Stark's sons and the only one at Winterfell, Brandon Stark is somewhat like the plague, unavoidable and entirely too dangerous for Rhaegar's peace of mind.

If only he could distract father enough from the mysteries of Lady Stark's bosom to convince him it was time to be going on with their journey or returning to King's Landing. Alas, he cannot do it at the moment. So he reaches for the harp and starts playing. Shaena drops her weight on the bed and closes her eyes.

"Don't you ever wish we had been born somewhere else?" she questions, her voice barely rising above the music.

"All the time," he answers without a shred of hesitation. If it were his choice, Rhaegar would have happily chosen a family of lesser nobility. He might have been free to wander as he pleased and do as he would then. "If I ever get the chance," he trails off. Where would he go anyway?

Shaena rises to give him a long look. "If you go, take me with you. I wouldn't be fair otherwise."

Rhaegar laughs and nods his head at the request. He's not going anywhere, so there is no harm in acquiescing. Shaena responds with a smile and then she falls to the bed again, her legs kicking slowly as he begins to play again, picking up from where she interrupted.

The door opens and admits Daeron in. His brother is grinning, despite the red mark staining his cheek. He sits on the bed next to Shaena and says not a word. Rhaegar prays that whatever he has done may be excused by his age.

The Seven help them all, he thinks, when his brother whispers something in Shaena's ear to which she grins and nods her head empathically. He hopes Wylla Stark knows how to guard her back.

* * *

It is curiosity which pushes her to reach Winterfell. On the road Lyanna hears that the King is visiting. And she also hears that he has brought his children with him. Torr tells her about the King, apparently familiar with the subject. Lyanna listens and imagines silver hair and violet eyes. She cannot decide if it would fit well or not.

"They sound like the Others," she says, mindlessly trailing her fingers through unbound hair. Her hands set about braiding in a few moments more. "I want to see."

Sneaking into Winterfell is trickier than climbing the Wall, but not quite as dangerous. It seems that the King has brought a great amount of men with him, which means, according to Torr, that the keep is in need of more hands to work. He and Lyanna need but pretend business to get in.

(And what a place it is. Lyanna is in awe at the sheer size. But even more, she feels her heart thundering in her chest at the sight of blue flowers.)

* * *

It's the older one she wants. Lyanna clings to the shadows and watches the young man shaking off the hold of a girl similar in looks to him. A younger version trails behind them. _Gods, she had never seen such a man in her entire life._ Her insides twist sharply. Lyanna feels her face heat up. It's the same feeling she gets when she wakes up in the middle of the night to moans and grunts. She rubs her thighs together, annoyed at the discomfort.

"Rhaegar, wait," the woman calls, trying to get him to slow down.

"Rhaegar," Lyanna whispers to herself, testing the name upon her lips. "Rhaegar. Rhaegar." It feels foreign. And delicious. Lyanna licks her lips and moves against the darkness, following them quietly.

"Shaena, my answer is nay." His voice does strange things to her heart. Lyanna leans in, silently begging him to _please, speak again._ "Go before I make you."

"Fine, you boor," the fair haired female stomps her foot. Lyanna rolls her eyes and consider jumping at her and tugging her away from her Rhaegar. "Daeron shall help me. Won't you, Daeron?"

"I, erm," the other hesitates. "I actually wanted to ask Wallys Flowers something about the Wall."

Silver hair and violet eyes. Lyanna did not think it would appeal to her. But apparently it does. She decides to blame it on the Southron blood running through her veins. It is her mother who expects chivalry and beauty. Lyanna will have none of that though. Yet she will take the prince.

Her fingers search for the knife hidden in the folds of the dress she has been forced to wear. A grin make its way to her lips as the three siblings break away one from the other. Rhaegar enters his own bedchamber, his sister stomps away and his other brother trails after her like a lost pup. They pass Lyanna without paying her any mind.

* * *

Rhaegar hears the door creak open and sighs heavily. "Shaena, how many times must I tell you," he begins, searching for the shirts he has just discarded, "that you cannot enter my room whenever you want." He turns around to upbraid her, but to his great surprise it is not his sister.

 _He knows those eyes._ She looks almost like Wylla and for one crazy moment Rhaegar almost calls for her by the name of Lord Stark's daughter. But this girl before him is not Wylla. She is a bit shorter and leaner. His brow furrows. "Who are you?" he demands.

She wears the garb of servants, but her looks are much too close to those of their host. Is she perhaps a natural daughter? The girl smiles, a wolfish stretch of lips that reveals a flash of white sharp teeth. He tenses when she approaches, still having given no answer.

"Answer me." The words fall between them like a curtain. She stops and looks him up and down, an unmistakable glint in her eyes. He responds to the desire he sees in there and wishes he wouldn't.

"I am Lyanna." Just Lyanna, he notices. Just Lyanna toys with a string of her apron, her eyes catching his. Rhaegar fixes his attention on those eyes. There is nothing coy about her. She's an open book and he has always been a great reader. "And you," she points at him, dainty finger held slightly upward, "are mine."

He cannot help the chuckle he releases. "Am I?" Rhaegar questions.

Unexpectedly, she flies towards him, knocking into his frame with all her strength. The momentum brings them both to the floor. Instinct prompts him to grab onto her to balance himself. But all that manages to achieve is pressing her body to his, feeling the softness of her body atop of him.

And then something cold presses against his neck. He never even saw her reaching for a weapon. Rhaegar assumes she had it hidden in the sleeve of her dress. The steel bites, not hard. It's not very sharp. Still, it is a weapon. He wonders what sort of insane person had found her way into his bedchamber. His hands fall away from her.

"Southrons," he hears her mutter. "Cannot even understand when they are being stolen." That strikes him as odd. However, he is much too concerned about the being stolen part for the moment, so, with as much care as he can muster, Rhaegar rises his hand to her side gently.

Lyanna, or whatever her name is, does notice, but not soon enough to stop him. She tries, to her credit and even manages to momentarily hold him down. But in the end her weight is not enough and he flips them over, wedging a leg between hers and pressing his forearm across her chest and limbs. "What are you, a wildling?" he asks.

That is exactly what she is. She doesn't nod, but she stops struggling long enough for her eyes to meet his. Rhaegar makes the mistake of relaxing his grip.

Her hand rips out from beneath his arm and the hit falls against the left side of his face. Long nails dig into the skin and then her forehead knocks into him. Blood fills his mouth. Rhaegar coughs at the metallic taste. He doesn't have the time to retaliate though for a sharp pain registers in the back of his head and then his whole world goes blank.

* * *

Torr thinks she is insane. "They will come looking for him," he tells her. "Leave him."

Lyanna shakes her head and cradles the insensible Rhaegar's head to her bosom. "He is mine," she snarls. She cannot even explain to herself why she doesn't want to part with him. But she doesn't. And she won't.

"Then at least make sure he lives," Torr sighs. "You had best pray no one saw you enter his bedchamber."

"You are the one who hit him over the head," she throws back at him, none too pleased. Her fingers purposely search his scalp, threading through the long silver locks. His breathing is regular and it does not seem like anything is amiss. Lyanna reckons he'll wake up soon enough. And then they can leave.

* * *

The dull ache in his temples is not helping with the general dislike he has for waking up. He stifles a groan. Someone is stroking their fingers through his hair, the deliberately slow motion soothing. Rhaegar wonders at this. Has he fallen ill? "Shaena," she murmurs, thinking that his sister is responsible. The stroking stops and a small sharp sound penetrates the silence. "Don't."

With great difficulty he opens his eyes and looks up to see a dark strand of hair falling towards him. Grey eyes hold him arrested for one long moment. And memories come swirling in, breaking through the confusion. The wildling girl shushes him, pressing a finger to his lips.

Rhaegar wants to rebel at that. He pulls away from her and she lets him go without a fight. Her hand, however, has gone to her weapon and she looks up. Rhaegar follows her gaze and only then does he realise where they are. If he yells out, whoever is up there will hear him and he'll be saved. Rhaegar's gaze flickers to Lyanna. She too is looking at him. Or he could go on an adventure. How far can she take him anyway?

He sits back down and his companion visibly relaxes. She sits down as well, cross-legged. Rhaegar watches her lean against the wall. The sounds above them stop. "I think they're gone." Something chafes at his wrists. Rhaegar gazes down. Of course. His hands have been bound. He holds them up and shoots her a questioning glance. "Is this part of stealing me away?"

"Aye." Her voice is quieter than he remembers it. But that is perhaps because of where they are. She moves towards him and he forces his body not to react at her approach. "How is your head?" She doesn't pay much mind to his grimace when she searches the back of his head with her small hand. "Better?"

"What did you hit me with?" It had hurt.

"That was Torr," she corrects. But she does not tell him what he'd been hit with. "It is well that you are better. Scaling the Wall will be easier."

He cannot be sure, but Rhaegar thinks he may be looking at her as if she'd told him she was his long lost sister. Scaling the Wall. What nonsense. The lass is insane. She turns away from him and pulls out a small water skin. She takes a sip and then holds it to him. Rhaegar is not sure if he should be trusting her. But Lyanna pushes it against his lips. And he is thirsty. No need to be wasting away.

"You had best return me, girl," he tells her in his most pretentious tone of voice. "I'll not stay with you."

She laughs. "You are already mine." Lyanna says it as if that should mean something. "I gave you the chance to refuse."

"Before or after your friend knocked me senseless?" he demands. The young woman blushes and looks away. "What do you want anyway?"

Then her eyes shift to his again. Rhaegar sucks in a breath. "You." It's one word. She pulls herself closer to him until there is no space between them. "I want you." And she leaves it at that, settling down next to him, stretching herself out. Rhaegar wonders if the magnitude of her actions is clear to her.

Her eyes are closed, chest rising and falling softly. She wants him. "Ah," she breaths out, "if you think to escape, don't bother. It's storming outside. You wouldn't last the night.

"My gratitude for the warning," he drawls out. An adventure indeed.

* * *

Rhaegar doesn't exactly consider himself an easy man to impress. Living with a family like his does tend to encourage insensibility. How else can one trudge through such a dreary existence? But back to the matter at hand, Rhaegar is _impressed, beyond impressed,_ truth be told.

(It is something he will remember even when he is old and grey and very, very cold.)

"Gods be good, what is that?" he cannot help but ask, warily eyeing the creature before him, wishing he could draw back. The wilding girl and her partner in crime seem nonplussed by it. Lyanna actually gives a short bark of laughter.

"Claw, to me," she calls and the lumbering beast actually comes, docile as a pup. It wags its tail lazily, sniffing at the ground. Rhaegar gulps. Lyanna grabs onto his hand and calls the attention of her pet. "He is mine, Claw," she tells it, as if the creature is supposed to understand.

Claw gives him a disinterested look. It stretches itself out, the cold wind breathing through its fur, ruffling it. Lyanna is apparently pleased with that response. She looks up at him with a grin. "She likes you," she assures him.

As if he cares for the opinion of a direwolf. Rhaegar shakes his head. "How would you know that?" What is important is not being eaten as the main course of the morning meal.

The boy chortles. Rhaegar wishes he could knock him upside the head. "Oh, if she didn't, she would have torn you to pieces by now," Lyanna assures him, not paying any mind to her companion.

The North, Rhaegar thinks, deserves to be called barren and wild. They have been walking for days and there has been no sight of any settlement in all this time. But it might be that his little captor is taking him through a barren portion more likely. Grudgingly, he must admit that the whole business is exciting. And not only because of its novelty. After all, how many times does a prince get to be kidnapped and carried off, as it were, by a daring slip of a woman?

And Lyanna, _just Lyanna, plain and simple Lyanna_ , is more than he thought she would be. He thinks that mayhap she is the embodiment of this cold, dark place, never still, despite her stillness, never quite, despite the silence.

"I wonder if there is anything to eat here," Torr sighs. "Why won't you use that bow of yours to catch us something, woman?" he asks of Lyanna.

"Mayhap you should catch your own food," comes her brazen reply. Hands on her hips, she scowls at him. "I've not the inclination to feed you."

"Aye, but you feed him," the younger man points to Rhaegar.

Lyanna laughs, her voice carried out by the wind. "He is mine." This reply of hers is achingly familiar and deeply unsettling in a way that has him wondering over his own sanity. As if he could ever belong to a wild girl and her direwolf. And yet here he is, in the company of the girl and her wolf. Belonging.

* * *

She has a fascination with his hair. Rhaegar catches her staring more than once, her fingers making indecisive motions. She doesn't touch him however. She hasn't since that first time. It is only at night that she draws herself close to him, sharing warmth more than anything else. The North is damnably cold and he does not wish to die, so, night after night, they huddle together. Lyanna is a slight creature and slim. She fits against him in the strangest way possible and more than once he's woken up curled around her, breathing in the scent of snow and wilderness.

On such occasions his mind drifts back to Winterfell and Wylla Stark who is so very similar to this Lyanna. And so very different all at once. Inevitably his thoughts will turn to Shaena and Daeron and whatever pranks they might be planning. But it might be that they are too distraught at his departure to plan anything at all. How strange that he should be so nonchalant about the whole matter.

Rhaegar raises his head and looks at the sleeping woman, curled against him. It should weigh on his mind that he has left home and hearth behind for an adventure. But it doesn't. _He wants to be here_.

At their feet Claw lets out a small growl. Rhaegar turns his head towards the beast and shushes it, settling himself back against Lyanna and her many layers of clothing. The skins and furs cover most of her. The image of that pale, slight girl holding her knife, standing there before him in her dress, surfaces seemingly out of nowhere. Lyanna stirs, murmuring something incoherent. For a brief moment he fears she is awake.

But it does not come to pass so. A thing he is very thankful for.

* * *

"And how exactly are we going to scale the Wall?" Rhaegar questions, still of the impression that the wildling is not quite right in the head to think such a scheme would work. Whatever way she has found beyond the Wall, Rhaegar refuses to believe she scaled it.

"You think I lie to you." She frowns. "I am no liar. We scaled the Wall and we shall do so again." Her eyes search about for her pet. "Where is Claw?" she demands, apparently in no mood to give any further explanation. Rhaegar feels he shouldn't antagonise her more just yet.

"Went out hunting," Torr replies, stepping out from his hiding spot. "A wise creature. You should follow her example." He has his own weapons out. "And take your man with you. I am not staying behind to watch him."

Lyanna offers the other a curt nod and pulls on Rhaegar's hand. "Come now, we need food." Amusement worked its way inside of him as she tugs on his sleeve.

"Does that mean I shall hunt with you?" he finds himself asking. He has yet to see Lyanna use her bow and arrows, or even her dagger. Except that once, in his bedchamber.

* * *

She is deft. He'll give her that. And quite fast. And a good shot as well. Rhaegar is not sure why exactly he finds it endearing. (Because she has blood on her hands and hacks away at the poor creature lying on the ground. And this should not, by any means, make him feel grateful towards her.)

The women of court would probably have been in tears at this point. But not Lyanna. She seems not to care about the harsh wind, the leaves and tiny braches that somehow get stuck in her hair, or the fact that her furs have been stained with blood. Instead she works. Focused. Driven.

She does look up at him at one point. His curiosity inspires amusement and disbelief in her. "Never saw anyone stripping meat from bone?" The question is not harsh. It seems rather like she is laughing at him for it.

"I never had any reason to." But he ends up helping anyway. For a brief moment, he thinks he might be sick at the sight of it. And Lyanna trudges on beside him. Her tinkling laughter though gets him to forget about that soon enough.

"It is good I have so much patience," she tells him once she has carved away a large portion of the beast's lower half, "else I might have dumped you somewhere in the wilderness. The gods know you would have starved to death."

He wants to protest. But she's probably right. He would have starved. Instead, he replies with her own brand of insolence. "The way you keep staring at me, woman, I doubt you'd be able to ever let go."

A snort is her initial response. Then words follow. "You test my patience now, sorely. Don't think I won't let Claw have at you." Of course she won't. Rhaegar smiles at her, if a bit tight. And then her hand slaps against his shoulder, smearing blood and gore on his clothes without a moment's hesitation. "What would you be able to do against her?"

Given proper weapons, he might have stood a chance. Rhaegar shakes his head. "I am hardly that daft as to go against your beast."

And he returns to his own work, skinning to the beast of his ability. (Which Lyanna will insist, years from this point, has not improved much, because he is simply that untalented.) "Careful," she hisses, "else there'll be no meat left."

* * *

There is enough meat to feed a large company of people.

Not that it matters with the way Lyanna and her companion tear at the food. Those two are truly wild. Claw, for herself, has found a spot beneath a tree and is gnawing on a bone. Rhaegar is just glad it's not his bones she's gnawing at.

It seems that Lyanna has corrupted him. The thought is odd, to be calling the creature a _she._

* * *

The Wall, Rhaegar decides, is too vast and too tall and much too imposing. Lyanna barely pays it any mind. She's busy tying ropes and securing her wolf. This whole thing is made doubly dangerous by said wolf.

On the other hand, he now has evidence that the girl is quite sound in the head – as far as giving out information goes. This one is a double-edged sword. Because at the same time he can only think that she is insane to the highest degree to be doing this.

"Haven't you had your fun?" he asks, going a few shades paler when she ties a thick rope around his waist. "Are you entirely deranged?"

Touched in the head she might be. But afraid she isn't. Instead of properly answering him, she grabs hold of his shoulders and hauls herself up, smacking her lips into his without an ounce of fineness. With this occasion Rhaegar is given to understand that the art of seduction is completely lost on his wild woman. So he kisses her back. ( _If he's going to die, he might as well leave with a pleasant memory of warm lips and just a hint of affection.)_

* * *

The climb down the Wall is nerve-wrecking in so many ways that Rhaegar cannot count them all. He is still thinking that if he falls, they will all die. He will probably expire anyway before they reach the ground.

This would be a good time to wonder if father has sent the entire force of his host out searching for him. Rhaegar hoped it is so. Not because he hopes to be found. It's just comforting to think that while he is here, climbing down the Wall, his fingers freezing, his whole body numb with fear and his mind quite incapable of coherent thoughts, his father might be somewhere out in the wild North freezing as well. It's retribution enough for him if the man develops a head cold and is taken by the ague.

They are fast, Lyanna and Torr. And the boy is also in charge of the wolf.

Rhaegar just hopes, at this point, that they won't end up flat against the ground. If only because the demented girl has kissed him and he liked it and it would be a pity to die without having kissed her again.

* * *

As it turns out, they don't die. It must be dumb luck. Rhaegar will not credit that it was skill that actually saw them through for one simple reason.

Lyanna is on her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach, probably sick with fright,

Torr shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "She probably ate too much." The dismissive attitude would be amusing. Except that Rhaegar feels quite protective of the petite wildling. His eyes narrow in a glare. Torr backs away, muttering something about long waits and insanity.

Claw growls softly but does not seem anymore concerned than Torr had been. "She is your mistress, isn't she?" Rhaegar asks expectantly of the beast. Her eyes glint, but other than that there is nothing there.

* * *

"It's only a few weeks until we reach home," she tells him as if her home is his home. Lyanna has gripped his hand quite tightly, because she is no longer tying him with ropes. Rhaegar wonders if she thinks she could actually stop him if he did decide to flee.

And then he remembers she has Claw.

"That's a relief," he expresses rather dryly. "Are you certain this home of yours will be as welcoming as you are making it out to be." If he were her father, Rhaegar thinks he wouldn't be very thrilled to be one day brought a stranger. He would probably order a beheading.

"Southrons," she answers, poking his ribs with a jab of her pointer. "He'll accept you if I say you're mind."

"Again with that. How am I yours?" he questions.

To that she laughs.

* * *

Rhaegar never though he would be happy to see a cave. Or at least not as happy as he is. But Lyanna is nearly ecstatic, which makes him wonder.

"There is another one not too far away," she tells Torr, pointing him the right way. "You remember it."

Torr shrugs and nods his head. He leaves them without another word. Which is just as well, because he is about to find out what is so special about this cave.

There is a stream and shallow pools. The water is hot. Not enough to burn for some reason. But it is definitely hot and the first contact sears him. Rhaegar bites back a curse and turns to look at Lyanna only to find that she is fighting with her furs, trying to tackle them all at once and, presumably, take them off.

"What are you doing?" She stops and stares at him. "Have you no shame?" Strange that he should be the one to ask that. His mind might be protesting, but his body is certainly pleased with what is going on.

In the end Lyanna shakes her head. "Shame? What for? You are my lover." This is the first time she uses the word _lover._ They are not lovers, to be sure. They've only kissed so far. Granted, they'd been sleeping together and sharing body warmth for some time but they are not lover. She gives him an inviting stare, shrugging out of a thick pelt with a single roll of her shoulders.

If this does not prove he is as insane as her, then nothing else will, Rhaegar releases a sound of incredulity, but does not move to stop her. He winds up helping her pull on the furs. She is in too much of a hurry to do a proper job and he too is staring to feel frustrated with the ties.

* * *

There is something about a bold woman like her to be mentioned. She desires, she craves and wants. But she is ultimately unsure of how to proceed about it. Rhaegar is not amused, but only because his mind is much too busy analysing every detail he can make out in the semi-darkness of the cave.

They are wound against each other, pressed tightly together. Her fingers comb through his hair, tugging every once in a while. His own hands map out the length of her, finger trailing along soft, warm flesh. She jumps at his touch if the spot he uncovers is particularly sensitive and he files the information away for later.

When she is comfortable enough, her own hands go exploring.

And then it's sweating skin and breathy moans and harsh breathing. It's exhaustion and being alive. Rhaegar hasn't quite imagined it could be this good. Because it never was before. Lyanna pushes against him insistently after he first takes her until he is unable to refuse. (And really, he fears he's used her ill. She's small for all her fierceness and clearly – by the blood stains he finds later – he was her first. Rhaegar will regret his lack of care, but not his actions.)

That it happens again, and then again, is a credit to her and whatever strange form of witchcraft she's used to ensnare him.

* * *

Clean water is quite welcomed in the wake of their exercise and exertion. Rhaegar slides in first, more so that she will have someone to lean on. The pool is not deep, but it's comfortably long. Lyanna follows with a brave little dash that has her wincing. She doesn't dare mention the burning sensation between her thighs because it's not all bad and with his strange Southron customs her lover might think it strange of her.

Instead, she rests her form against him, glad for the warm water. His touch is soft, tentative, exploring even. He is careful of every curve and dip, taking it all in with a sense of wonder that has Lyanna holding her breath. It's strange to be the sole focus of so much attention. She feels her cheeks heating up.

Strange but not unpleasant. He doesn't take her again, much to her disappointment. But being held is just as nice. She never truly realised until this point that bedding down with a man, truly, is not so much about a meeting of bodies as it is about a meeting of minds and hearts.

Lyanna leans in to kiss his lips. He lets her, arms snaking their way around her. He coaxes her mouth open, pushing past her teeth with his tongue. She lets him. It is interesting and exciting.

* * *

Torr makes a strange face caught somewhere between understanding and disgust. Lyanna ignores him entirely, allowing Rhaegar to brush her hair with a small wooden comb her mother has given her. She never thought to use it until this point. But Rhaegar insists on it. And she won't deny him. Especially if it means he'll lie with her again.

* * *

He wouldn't term the settlement a village. It's rather too crude for that. But there are small houses, half-buried in the ground and some tents mixed in too. Children run around, yelling out in a tongue that Rhaegar cannot recognise.

They seem fairly normal people. Certainly not the monsters the Watch paints them out to be. But that should have been clear by example. Rhaegar looks at Lyanna, who has stopped a couple of children in the middle of their rough play. She kneels by them and explains something to the girl, then demonstrates by standing to her feet and throwing a punch at him.

He catches her hand instinctively. It's clear she'd put no real force behind the hit. His fingers curl around her wrist and he tugs on it, sending her body falling towards him. "What manner of mischief is this?" he questions.

The children stare at him in awe. But maybe that has more to do with him being a stranger rather than him having put a stop to whatever Lyanna had been doing.

* * *

She can hear them whispering. Lyanna is no fool. Her head turns to the side and she glares at a couple of women, a thin smile stretching upon her lips. They are frightened. They should be. Rising and dusting herself off, she pulls Rhaegar down for a kiss.

"They are looking," he whispers.

"I want them to," she answers.

Let them look. They should see what the blood of the gods can do. She feels like screaming out for joy, but holds herself back. Just this once, she wants to appear majestic and refined. (She hasn't caught herself a prince for nothing.)

There are some whistles and shouted words that make her ears burn, but no more than the memory of him between her legs. Kissing always seems to bring that back.

* * *

There are quite a number of things he has been expecting. Among them, Rhaegar had counted the possibility of being assaulted by Lyanna's male family members. She tells him that a man must prove his worth by fighting. And it all seems to be fairly clear to him.

"He might test you thus," she whispers. "So fight, if it comes to it."

What actually happens is not blunt steel coming at him, but rather he is hit, hard enough to produce considerable amount of pain, by something much like a wooden spoon. And it is certainly no father or brother of Lyanna's that stands before him.

He can't make out what she is yelling, but he does understand that the words are addressed to the daughter.

The next time she brings her weapon down on him, Rhaegar catches it deftly and breaks the woman's hold on it. He catches her around the waist and twists her arms back, effectively trapping her.

"A warm welcome," he mutters, throwing a hard stare at Lyanna. She looks back at him with a smug expression on her face.

* * *

_Lyarra Stark._ The resemblance makes sense now. Rhaegar watches the woman warily. He understands her concern.

"They searched for me for years after I was taken," she confides in him quietly, pushing a bowl of food into his hands. "I was just a lady. You are a prince of the realm. What possessed you to run away with my daughter?"

He smiles. "You seem to think your daughter gave me a choice." Lyarra flushes scarlet. How very similar to Lyanna she is. "If they search, they search. I cannot put a stop to that."

"If they find you here," the warning is not lost on him. "We are at peace for the time being, Your Grace, but this is not a place one such as you would settle in."

He fells oddly insulted at that. "And yet here I am." Rhaegar glances at Lyanna, just a moment. She is laughing with her brother, Claw between them. "I will never go back. I don't belong there anymore."

"You do not belong here either," comes the expected answer. A sharp nod of his head meets that. She is right. "We are two of a kind then, Your Grace."

"Rhaegar, just Rhaegar, will do. I am no prince here."

* * *

She's impatient and sweet and wild. Rhaegar catches her wrists above her head, half-pinning her down with his weight. Lyanna playfully struggles against him. "Do not tease," she pleads. But he teases anyway, because this has to be proper.

Her legs lock around him, hold tight. It shouldn't be so warm, considering where they are, but Rhaegar feels like he is being baked alive. In a good sense, of course. If he should burst into flame, he would not truly mind. Not as long as he can remain with Lyanna as they are now.

He feels her clamping down on him, the tight press of her walls pulling him deeper into the abyss until there is nothing much left of him. He falls down for her (the only woman he ever wants to fall for) and moves sluggishly to the side at the last moment.

Landing on his side, his shoulder hits the ground. Lyanna follows his movement until their fronts are pressed closely together. They haven't separated yet. They are still one being. Her warm breath caresses his skin.

_Gods, this must be what love feels like._

The thought smacks right into him, coming out of nowhere. It arrests him, making his whole frame tense. Love. Why is he thinking about love? Of course he would be thinking it's love. He's been spending more of his days inside her than outside. It's a natural attachment. But love?

Lyanna brushes her fingers against his back and shoulders, tracing odd patterns. Has she said something about love to him? Rhaegar tries to think. Nothing comes.

He wants to ask. _Do you love me?_ It should be easy. They are just words.

Except they aren't. Just words.

The wildling girl presses herself tighter into him, her hips starting a slow repeated motion of ascension and descent.

* * *

It's one of those certainties of life that if a man sleeps with a woman long and often enough she will find herself with a child in her belly for their efforts. Lyanna has little other path, of course, given that she and Rhaegar have taken quite well to that domestic aspect.

So when he finds bend hunched over, head between her knees, the remnants of last night's hunt at the roots of the tree, she does not even think about lying, or trying to hide. It is natural. It is something to be expected.

Her breasts grow sore soon enough. According to her mother this is to be expected and she should not be bothered by it. "'Tis good for the babe then. You'll be able to feed it." And that's that. Naturally, the announcement is made in front of Rhaegar, which Lyanna for some reason does not appreciate.

But he is calmer than her by far. Or at least better at hiding any sort of anxiety.

The only clue she has as to his thoughts upon the matter come in the form of him being reluctant to bed her.

("'Tis considered mannerly of a man to not bed down with a woman when she carries in the Kingdoms," her mother tells her. To which Lyanna shakes her head and mumbles between clenched teeth. "What rot.")

* * *

It's not that he doesn't want to bed her now that she is with child. It's that there have been too many instances of such a practice ending with the death of the babe. At least as far as his own parents had been concerned. But then again, the King had not been normal.

His Lyanna looks at him belligerently as if to say _I'll fight you on this._ And he believes she would. When she does, he is not surprised at all.

She comes to bed as she usually does, but instead of sliding beneath the furs, she plants herself atop of him, sitting astride. Given that her state is yet new, there is not sight of it. Rhaegar doesn't move, doesn't even blink when her lips descend to his. This siren's call he cannot quite ignore.

"We won't hurt it," she promises slowly, solemnly against his mouth. "We could never hurt it." Her hips rock back and forth. Lyanna takes one of his hands and presses it to her flat abdomen. "How could be possible hurt it when we love it so much?"

It makes sense. Because of that, Rhaegar ends up accepting that even if he wanted to (and he does not want to) he could never really stop Lyanna in this.

She rids them of every barrier and takes him in with astounding tenderness. He cannot really comprehend that there are tears in her eyes until one of them lands on his face.

"Do not weep." Out of all the things to say. He rises himself and pulls her towards him for a kiss. Her rhythm picks up. He tastes love and tears, salty and sweet.

* * *

It takes time for the process to advance. Rhaegar watches Lyanna with rapt attention whenever they are near one another. It is not so often now because he has taken to hunting with her father and she is more careful for the babe at the insistence of everyone from her mother to the very annoying woman of the village.

There are still moments when he wants to chastise her for running about, even though, round as she is with child, such endeavours are difficult and dangerous. Lyanna takes it all in with a sense of amazement. She laughs and cries by turns and assures him that he is exaggerated in his care.

Which he isn't.

* * *

Lyanna wakes up in the middle of the night to a strange pain. She tries to stifle the sound that rises unbidden past her lips, but all that earns her is clenched teeth to the point where she fears she'll break her jaw.

Her hand automatically grasps Rhaegar's, fingers squeezing tightly, painfully. He wakes with a start and the beginning of a curse on his lips. Sleep-clouded mind barely understand her request. "I want mother," she tells him. "Rhaegar!"

And then he understands. And that curse does leave his lips, but at least he's on his feet and running out in search of Lyarra. Lyanna twists her fingers into the furs and with her other hand lifts the covers to slide her hand in.

When she brings it out again, blood stains it.

Pain wracks her, wave after wave, growing, ever growing. It steals her breath away. And she cries out for someone, anyone.

Warm hands cup her face soon and a wet cloth is pressed to her forehead.

"There, there, all shall be well," her mother's disembodied voice floats above her. For one impossible moment Lyanna is sure she's gone blind from the pain. Only after does she realise she was holding her eyes closed.

* * *

If this were Seven Kingdoms, he would have been permitted to enter. Rhaegar stares unhappily at the woman barring his way. She explains, quite coldly, that a man's place is not in the birthing chamber. "'Twill do your woman no good for you to be there." Her eyes say that _men are useless in such situations._

They probably are. But he wants to know that she is well.

A bloodcurdling yell splits the darkness.

Rhaegar looks over at Styr who has the gall to actually grin. "It must be a boy."

How his sister's screams are any indicator of that, he does not know. But he wants to badly to ease the tension that has taken over him. Styr throws him a wild look. This he follows by throwing a punch. Not having expected that, Rhaegar is caught unawares.

Blood spurts from his lip as the flesh swells and breaks. But he is not knocked to the ground. In retaliation, he throws his whole body into the fight.

* * *

The proud mother holds the babe to her chest, a grin splitting her face from ear to ear. She looks exhausted. And joyful beyond words. She barely even deigns to look up at him when he enters. And Rhaegar is much too taken with the creature she holds to mind it one jot.

He kneels beside them, leaning over slightly. The babe, a boy indeed, suckles at his mother's breast. "I like him. He was loud when he was born." Rhaegar knows, he had heard their cries mingling together and nearly lost his footing because of it, which earned him another bruise.

They'll not name him for some time yet. This he knows for having lived so long within the little village. Not yet. When he is older. Lyanna glances away from the child. "My brother was merciless, was he not?" She offers her lips as means to placate him.

"The merciless one is you." But his heart can beat normally again. Or at least not stop every five seconds, near to bursting with uncertainty and fear. If ever it fails him, it should be because of an overflow of love.

_Love. So this is what love feels like._

She laughs, thick and full of emotion, and there are tears as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally decided to finish this one.
> 
> Note to the hopeful, it would be best if you didn't.


End file.
